At the moment of stepping into Karajun, hiking shoes became tools for measuring the pulse of the earth.
The undulating meadow is like green silk crumpled by the wind, stepping on it with one foot can sink into half an inch of softness, carrying the scent of grass that has been exposed to sunlight. Spruce trees draw ink lines along the mountain ridge, while the pasture winds into silver chains in the green waves. After walking a few steps, you come across a group of cows and sheep grazing on grass with their heads down. They glance up at you and then wag their tails to blend into the scenery.
The wind is the guide here, sometimes pushing you towards the top of the slope, and sometimes bringing the smell of smoke from the distant felt house.
When you're tired, just sit on the grass, and the grass seeds on the soles of your boots will quietly crawl into the fabric, like the memories that Karajun secretly gives you. The best way to hike is to slow down your steps so that you can catch a drifting cloud, count the dewdrops on the grass leaves, and understand the millions of secrets hidden in the wind about the grassland.
